The Calm Before the Storm
by your.daily.dose.of.fanfic
Summary: Amidst the political turmoil surrounding Titus Mede II's ascension to the Imperial Throne, rumours run rampant around Cyrodiil of a potential war brewing between the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion. As the rumours slowly turn into a reality, fear grips the province and the lives of ordinary citizens and nobles, politicians and princes are changed forever. CRAP SUMMARY IS CRAP
1. Prologue

_A/N: Just in case you don't know, all of the stuff here takes place between the years 4E 168 (when Titus Mede II becomes the Emperor) and might go just past 4E 175 (when the Great War ends and the White-Gold Concordat). This fic also has mostly OCs in it, but there are also a lot of familiar references to NPCs, places, and events from both Oblivion and Skyrim (because it's criminal how the minor characters don't get enough love)._

_Also, random cover image is random because I couldn't be bothered making one yet._

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**PROLOGUE:**

**IMPERIAL PALACE  
2****nd**** of Last Seed, 4E 168**

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The distant bells from the Temple of the One had just tolled past midnight. Inside the confines of the Imperial Palace, a thick atmosphere of uncertainty seemed to settle over the small group of austere-looking councilors waiting anxiously outside the doors to the Emperor's chambers. Time seemed to pass slowly, and the councilors began to increasingly worry and huddle together— their low, hushed whispers echoing eerily through the dimly lit marble halls. Suddenly, they bolted upright to attention as the ornate wooden doors opened, and a stately Redguard dressed in the official garb of the High Chancellor stepped through them.

"Inner Council," he spoke, "Emperor Attrebus Mede II is dead."

The councillors bowed their heads solemnly and mumbled quiet prayers to the gods for the late Emperor's soul. There was a long, tense silence when all of a sudden, it was broken by a quiet but authoritative voice from the back of the group:

"Well, then. I suppose we had better get the funeral plans underway then."

The rest of the councilors turned around suddenly as Chancellor Dorian craned his head to see who had just interrupted the solemn moment. His gaze sought its way through the group and settled on a middle-aged Breton statesman, dressed in fine, dark blue velvet.

_Ah_.

"Have you no shame, Mottiere?" a Dunmer battlemage suddenly piped up loudly, "The Emperor's body is barely cold, and here you are already planning his funeral!" There was a quiet murmur of agreement from within in the group.

The man named Mottiere smiled impassively. "I am not 'planning' anything, Councilor Salas," Mottiere replied smoothly, "I am simply _suggesting _that we must act swiftly and decisively."

The Dunmer scoffed. "Oh, please. Do you seriously expect anyone to believe—"

"Victor, Athis– peace!" Dorian cried out. He looked from one man to the other, then held out his hands and managed a diplomatic smile. "The Emperor's body is still inside. The council _must_ not fight within itself, especially now." There was a loud cry of _"Hear, hear!"_ from somewhere in the group.

"Apologies, Chancellor," Athis Salas said acquiesced humbly, "I'm afraid I let my temper get the best of me." Dorian noticed that the Dark Elf still did not face Mottiere. He sighed then turned towards the Breton. "Motierre?" Dorian asked. Mottiere was standing impassively silent, but Dorian could just see the beginnings of red-hot embarrassment forming on the man's pale cheeks. "Hmm, yes," Mottiere finally said at length, smoothing out his velvet tunic, "Likewise, Chancellor. I apologise." Dorian breathed out and relaxed. Well, for as much as he could, anyway.

"Well then," he turned to address the rest of the Inner Council, "Yes, Mottiere, you are right to ah, _suggest_ that Emperor Attrebus' body must soon be laid to rest. However, the first thing we must sort out is the succession. Crown Prince Titus must be informed immediately and his coronation planned as soon as possible so that he may reaffirm the Elder and Inner Council positions…" Dorian's voice trailed off slowly as he became aware of a sudden, uncomfortable change in atmosphere.

"Reaffirm our positions?" a matronly Imperial woman questioned worriedly, "Chancellor, surely in light of the instability of the Empire, we must ensure _stability_ by maintaining the current membership of the Inner Council?" There was another loud murmuring of agreement. Dorian suddenly heard Athis Salas' voice from behind him.

"But Councillor Sybilla, we cannot just simply suspend Council procedure. It is a violation of the constitution of this Empire." There was some foreboding mild argument from within the group. Dorian spoke up quickly. "Councilors, councilors! Please! if you have performed your duties to the letter, then there is noth—" Just then, a brusque Nord councilor named Hrafnar Axe-Sheild– as it turned out, the same one who had cried out _"Hear, hear!"_ earlier – suddenly interrupted him.

"Hear, hear!" he bellowed loudly, "It's not right otherwise!"

"Ugh. Is your kind even capable of prattling on about more than just honour, you stupid Nord?" a haughty and elegantly-dressed High Elf councilor breathed out tiredly, "Auri-El save us if our Empire continues to be run by your kind!"

"Damn elf! Better than being run by _your_ kind, Alarin, you, you… snowbacked _Thalmor traitor!_"

"HOW DARE YOU! I HAVE SERVED THIS EMPIRE LOYALLY FOR MANY YEARS—"

Dorian watched helplessly as the group of councilors quickly erupted into loud argument. Here he was, awake at some ungodly hour in the early morning, the Emperor lay dead and his heir uninformed, there was unrest in the few provinces that did remain a part of the Empire, Cyrodiil itself still had not fully recovered from the damage of the Oblivion Crisis and Potentate Ocato ten years later, and the sleeping beast – the Aldmeri Dominion – was lying dormant and threatened to pounce any time. And now this… _senseless squabbling_. It was all too much.

"_SILENCE!_" Dorian cried out. The arguing stopped and all the councilors turned wide-eyed to face him. He stood on the spot, breathing furiously. "Now, I want you all to listen _very_ carefully," he paced up and down the closed doorway, stopping to stare every councilor directly in the eyes, "Fetch the Moth Priests to prepare the Emperor's body for burial. Inform Prince Titus immediately of his father's death. Make arrangements for the funeral and following coronation." He shuddered with frustration. "And _please, _for the Emperor's sake, for the gods sake, and for goodness sake, _my sake_," he breathed in a deathly low voice, "Run this Empire like you are supposed to, instead of bickering like a rabble of Waterfront fishwives!"

And with that, he spun on his heels, turned his back to the stunned group of councilors, and headed back through the dimly lit hallways to his quarters. All too late, it was only in the few seconds between the moment when his head hit the pillow and when he finally drifted off to sleep that Dorian realised he hadn't actually seen Victor Motierre since the beginning of the night.

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_A/N: So guys, I hope you like my first attempt at an actual story that isn't a parody. Yay! Up until now though, I've been solely a humour/parody author so this type of thing, while being really fun and challenging to write, is totally out of my comfort zone. Naturally, constructive reviews are highly appreciated and I hope that you find this story actually making some kind of sense outside of my own head._

_LEAVE A REVIEW. PREVENT CRAP-FIC FORMATION BEFORE IT STARTS._


	2. Imperial City - 10th of Last Seed 4E 168

**THE IMPERIAL CITY  
10th of Last Seed 4E 168**

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_BLACK HORSE COURIER: SPECIAL EDITION!  
EMPEROR ATTREBUS MEDE II DEAD  
By Christophe Pierrane_

"_The entirety of the Empire proper is profoundly bereaved and in deep mourning after the unfortunate passing of the most beloved Emperor Attrebus Mede II the week prior, at seventy-five years of age. Emperor Attrebus presided over a reign frequently accosted by serious political upheavals from the former provinces and struggles perpetual, taking it upon himself to resolve and bear these momentous burdens with the great dignity and grace as befitting his most high and majestic station. He will be succeeded by his most noble eldest son, Crown Prince Titus, at thirty-six years of age, in this incredible duty of_—"

Carwen stopped reading and frowned. Christophe Pierrane, a plain-faced, over-worked Breton commoner of twenty-three, eyed the waifish Wood Elf printer of the Black Horse Courier from behind the messy stacks of paper piled on his wooden desk.

"So…how long do you think this will sell?"

Carwen looked up from the page. "Well, of course people will keep buying it for a few days; it _is_ about the death of the Emperor. But, um…" she bit her lip nervously, "It's very, um. It's just a bit— how to put this…"

Christophe gave out a low, defeated moan, and slumped forward onto his small wooden desk. "By the Nine, don't tell me I've just embarrassed myself in front of the whole Empire?" _Gods_, how long had he worked on trying to find the proper words for that obituary? Hours? Days? _Years_? The Emperor's solemn state funeral had only just ended a few hours ago and ever since then, Christophe had been continuously scribbling on the same page for what felt like so long, he wouldn't have been surprised if he'd walked out of the office to find that it was well into the Tenth Era and the Empire had already colonised both moons. _Pfft. As if the Empire could ever recover at this rate. _From what he remembered in his history classes, the Empire after the Oblivion Crisis had been constantly battered by events such as Black Marsh's succession, Red Mountain literally blowing up the entire province of Morrowind, the Summerset Isles breaking away to form some kind of _Aldmeri Dominion_, taking Valenwood and Elsweyr with it, and an invasion from a gods-damned _floating city_ _of necromancers_. The Empire was in such a constant state of disarray that a few years ago, the Elder Council finally decided on cutting funds to the Black Horse Courier altogether. The fact that the Black Horse Courier had to suddenly rely solely on revenue from sales to keep itself afloat sent Ja'harri, the publication's snarly Khajiit publisher, up the wall. Christophe shuddered. He dreaded to think what he would have to say about the effect that his apparent 'failure' of an obituary might have on sales. _Thank Sheor the grumpy cat was currently out of town on that "business trip" to Bravil..._

As he lay face-down on the wooden desk, he suddenly felt Carwen's scrawny hand give the top of his head a friendly tousle. "Aw look, don't beat yourself up over it," she piped up reassuringly, "All it is is just a bit formal and wordy this time, that's all. I mean, I know I can't speak 'cause I'm not journalist our anything but I guess next time, you could just use less posh, more, more… _oomph._"

Christophe slowly sat up and tried to slick his mousy hair back again. "I can't help it. I'm a Breton– we just feel like we have to be formal and wordy especially with things like _these. _I also didn't want to get it wrong this time around." He looked up at Carwen, who was now trying to get him to take the article back. Christophe just stared blankly at it. "Besides, don't you think the death of the _Emperor of Tamriel_ should be reported on with just a _little bit _of solemnity? I mean, what would people think of us if we treated such a huge political event like the death of the Emperor just any other story?"

Carwen cocked a carroty eyebrow up and looked at him with an impish grin. "If by 'people' you mean the stuffy toffs up in the Talos Plaza District who've never worked a day in their lives then sure, I guess you could write _'with flowing prose and appropriate gravitas!_'". Christophe felt that should have been offended by her remark, but he couldn't help but chuckle his friend's imitation of the pompous Imperial fellow who had filed a complaint last month about his "primitive" column on Skingrad wines. _By Sheor_, Christophe remembered how Ja'harri had lectured him on 'customer service' for at least an hour after that incident. "But ordinary folk – you, me, the guys who hang around the Market District and Waterfront?" Carwen continued, her eyes lighting up "We want excitement, _sensation_!" She suddenly spun around dramatically, page in hand, and almost slipped on one of the past editions of the Courier lying strewn across the floor. Christophe couldn't help the undignified snort of laughter that came out of his mouth at the sight of the wide-eyed look on his friend's face. "Hey!" Carwen pouted and stood back upright with her hands planted firmly on her hips."_Well_," Christophe said, still trying to muffle up his laughter, "You _did_ imply the totally serious article I wrote sounds like it was written by a stuffy toff!" Despite his words, he still couldn't wipe the grin from his face. Carwen's eyes widened. "No, no! I don't think you're stuffy at all!" she said quickly, 'What I meant to say was who cares about people like Mister-Imperial-Cyodillic-Brandy-Refined-Palate?"

Christophe sighed. "_Ja'harri _cares about people like him." Carwen snorted. "And sadly, we have to too," Christophe glared at her, "Whether we like it or not, we still have to sell these papers to the Plaza District crowd. They've got the money, the power, the influence. They have what we need to get us and the Courier back on our feet."

"Money? Power? _Influence_?" Carwen leaned in closely over Christophe's desk, her voice dropping to a low whispher, "The Emperor's death means politics, infighting between the members of the Councils, the new Emperor's coronoation! It'll be a field day for the Courier!"

"There might be a war with the Dominion. I've heard rumours about it."

Carwen stared at Christophe. "Do you really have to be so pessimistic all the time? There might not be a war. The Empire's still pretty strong, despite everything. And look," she sat down on the front of the desk, "Even if there _is _a war, think about it: when all of these exciting things happen, people will clamber over each other to get a hold of our special editions. The grumpy cat will probably be too happy to be angry at anything. The next few years could set us all up for life if we just... grabbed it!" Christophe looked down at his ink-stained sleeves and sighed. Carwen was right; she might have just been a printing press worker with big dreams, but her years living on the Waterfront had given her a survivor's experience of the wide world that Christophe's old schoolteachers could never have taught him. Besides, he couldn't help but brighten up at the idea of earning a few extra septims. How long had he been since he bought new clothes? The mended cuffs on the frayed flannel tunic he'd owned for years were beginning looked like they were in serious need of repair again.

Christophe gave a tired sigh then, turning up to look at his friend with an uncharacteristic smirk, snatched up the page from his friend's hand before finally resolving to crumple it up and toss it into a nearby wastebasket. "Um…you didn't have to do that, you know…" Carwen said, stunned. Christophe smiled and stood up from his desk. "Maybe not, but you're right," Christophe said at last. "There's no point in moping about," he said as the two of them stepped out of the office into the busy night air of the Imperial City Market District. "No use thinking about wars that might happen. I think the future just might have some things in store for us." He grinned at his friend, who laughed loudly. "Oh! Come on, you," Carwen said, before suddenly taking Christophe's arm and dragging him through the crowded streets, "Work's finally done and I seriously need a drink."

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_A/N: I hope you guys liked that chapter! I'll try to update as soon as my schedule frees up._


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